


The way home

by redheadandslytherin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Maglor goes home, because I refuse to think about the possibility of something else happening to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadandslytherin/pseuds/redheadandslytherin
Summary: Sometime in the seventh age, Maglor finally sails.





	The way home

He finds the toy on the sidewalk, half hidden under some fallen leaves. He brushes the dirt off and turns the little figure around in his hands. It’s a small thing, shaped like one of those cartoon crocodiles he’s seen advertised in toy shop windows. The figure is holding some books and is smiling, and despite the green skin and well, the whole crocodile thing, it reminds him of Maitimo. He puts it in his coat pocket and carries on.

The world has changed in the last few ages; the shoreline of what once was Middle Earth is now unrecognisable. He lived through it all; empires rising and falling, wars, nations coming together and vanishing like snow in the sun. He never interfered, just watched as he wandered, never straying far from the shore. Somewhere along the way, he picked up a violin and learned how to play – something that came naturally to him even after all those years. Now whenever he needs some money, he’ll find a busy corner and play the songs he hears the people sing, waiting until a sufficient amount of coins gather in the hat in front of him before moving on; there is always someone asking for a specific song, willing to pay some more for it. He refuses to think about what his father or brothers would say – the great Makalaurë, greatest singer and musician of his time, making ends meet as a street musician. He mostly sleeps in hostels, never staying for more than one night. He only ever has the clothes on his back, some money in his pockets and the violin in a sturdy, but battered case. Sometimes, he ventures into an overly large and frivolously lit supermarket at night to get new clothes or sometimes, the rare treat of book. He only ever reads children’s books, tales with cute talking animals and cheesy rhymes. He simply cannot bear anything about history, or science, let alone love or passion; those topics remind him of a family long lost. Once he’s read them, he leaves them on playground benches or carefully wraps them in old newspaper and slips them into the post boxes of houses he’s seen children leave.

Makalaurë learns the languages of these lands, although he rarely ever speaks these days. Sometimes, he asks for directions to a nearby hostel or supermarket. He quietly places his orders at the small, homely restaurants he sometimes eats at, always leaving a tip as generous as he can afford. Sometimes even plays the violin, if the owner asks. Sometimes he gets a free cup of coffee, tea, or a slice of cake in return.

He hates the cold with a passion, and as the leaves slowly turn yellow, he moves south, to warmer places. He gives his old coat to a homeless man, making sure to relocate the little toy figure to the pocket of his hoodie. He bought a small leather wallet from a street vendor a few weeks back, after watching them shiver in a thin coat for hours without selling a single thing. It is a modest piece, but sturdy. He likes how useful it is and wonders why he never bothered with one before as he slides it into his pocket.

As he moves further south, the weather is warm enough that he can get by with wearing only a hoodie over a simple shirt and a pair of jeans. He bought a pair of expensive, but extremely strong and comfortable hiking boots a few years back. He spent days playing the violin until he got enough money to pay for it, but he still considers it a good purchase. His feet used to ache and blister and bleed in his old shoes and he was desperate for something better. These might not last an age, but they will keep his feet warm for years before he has to worry about getting a new pair. The thought makes him smile. He forgot to count the years long ago, and it is only because of the annual celebrations the people have every winter that he has a rough idea of time passing.

He starts collecting small trinkets: a piece of sea-glass that is the colour of Ambarussa’s eyes, a small stone that is shaped like an arrowhead, half a pair of earring that has an interesting, intricate design. He keeps everything that reminds him of his family, and the pocket of his hoodie is starting to be too small. Sometimes he thinks that these small trinkets are the only thing keeping him sane. Sometimes he wonders if he has gone insane long ago and he’s only hoarding things to fool himself.

He wanders into a supermarket in the middle of the night, taking in the tired eyes of the lone cashier – no doubt a student trying to make a living while getting a degree – before looking around for the clothing section. He picks a moderately sized bag with a long strap that can be worn across his chest. It is big enough to hold his current trinkets and has space for more. He places it in the eye-watering orange shopping basket the store has and moves to find some food.

He likes oat bars, especially the ones with chocolate. He also picks up a pack of dried apricots before deciding that he also wants fresh fruit. He carefully chooses two pears and a big, juicy-looking peach. Carnistir used to love peaches in his youth, but would always get hopelessly sticky. He learned to eat them without getting juice everywhere, but after Maitimo was rescued, he sometimes tried to cheer him up or get him to eat by getting a peach for the two of them, and making an awful mess, like he used to back in Valinor. It worked, most of the time – Maitimo would chuckle and beckon Carnistir closer to wipe the juice off his chin or simply ask for a bite himself, clearly amused by his usually aloof brother acting like a small child.

He mindlessly puts a bottle of water in next to the fruit before starting towards the checkouts. There is an elderly woman paying for numerous bundles of thick wool yarn before him, and while he waits he spots a tray of foil-wrapped eggs on the shelf above the conveyor belt. They claim to be milk chocolate and to contain a surprise. He shrugs and grabs one – nothing wrong with some chocolate, and the afternoon he spent playing the violin a few days before was extremely rewarding. He can afford the little extra.

The sleepy student scans his items in a quick, efficient manner, almost if he were moved by strings. Makalaurë cannot help but shudder at the thought. He puts his things away and leaves for the hostel he spotted earlier.

Once in his room, he tears the price tag off the bag and empties his hoodie pocket onto the bed cover. He carefully examines each item before placing them in the bag. He eats one of the oat bars and drinks a few sips of water. He considers the pears and the peach, but decides to keep them for the next few days, picking up the chocolate egg instead. He gingerly peels the foil off, and manages to pull it off in one piece. The chocolate egg he breaks apart, like he’s seen the children do and pops a small chunk in his mouth. It melts on his tongue and he finds that he likes the sweetness.

The plastic egg opens with a pop and reveals a redheaded figurine working on a clay pot inside. He is immediately reminded of his mother, and the sudden wave of homesickness, the overwhelming need to see his mother again strikes him so hard that he cannot breathe properly for a long while. He clutches at his chest, trying to get rid of the iron clamps squeezing his lungs, and he sobs soundlessly, hands tangling in his hair, tears spilling freely.

He does not know how long he stays like that, but somehow he manages to stand. He wraps the remaining chocolate back into the foil with shaky hands, and sticks it into his bag with the pears, the peach, the dried apricots, the remaining oat bars and the small bottle of water. He grabs his violin and runs, runs towards the nearest shoreline – somehow he always knew which way to go to the sea.

He only realises he’s still clutching the little figure once he’s reached the water. There, he falls down to his knees and starts to cry in earnest, calling out to his mother until his voice breaks and he can do nothing but whisper. Slowly, exhaustion takes over and he falls asleep on the rocky shore.

When he wakes, there’s a small, grey boat rocking gently in the water. There is no one around, and the boat bears the eight-rayed star sigil of his family. For a long while, he thinks that he’s simply hallucinating, but no matter how hard he rubs his eyes or shakes his head, it does not go away.

He climbs in a bit warily, making sure that he has his bag and the violin. The boat moves without making the slightest of ripples on the water and he curls up, holding on to his meagre possessions tightly. He tires eventually and puts the violin down before opening his bag. He tucks the little figurine safely inside and eats one of the pears before going to sleep.

The boat glides across misty waters for days, and Makalaurë slowly eats all of his oat bars, the other pear, the peach and the slightly melted pieces of chocolate and drinks all of his bottled water. He’s nibbling on the last of the dried apricots when he finally sees land, and almost starts crying again when he recognises the shores of Valinor.

Makalaurë stumbles to the shore, bag in one hand, violin in the other, but drops them both when he notices the figure waiting for him – a tall, slender woman with fire red hair, clad in green and gold.

Nerdanel smiles softly and spreads her arms. Makalaurë falls forward into them like a helpless child and breaks down crying again. His mother just holds him, rubbing soothing circles into his back, rocking him gently. She whispers about how happy she is to have him back and that his brothers are waiting for him and did he know that Maitimo is now left-handed as her? And slowly, after what seems like another age, Makalaurë calms. He is, after all, finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are wondering, I headcanon his violin as a Stradivarious, because why the heck not?  
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://redheadandslytherin.tumblr.com/), I'd adore it!  
> Also I'm Silm trash.


End file.
